Of Course, Who Else?
by WickedForGood13
Summary: The Doctor's fears collide in 'The God Complex,' when he is forced to sacrifice Amy's faith in him in order to save her life.


_What could possibly be behind my door?_ the Doctor thought idly as he ran through a maze of hallways in an effort to save his friends. _What do I fear more than anything else in the universe?_

_Looks like I'm about to find out,_ his internal monologue continued, as a door caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Approaching it cautiously, he took in every minute detail, including the number eleven – obviously the room's number.

_How ironic,_ he thought, _considering this is my eleventh incarnation._

Of its own violation, his hand reached out to grip the doorknob. Turning it, he opened the door just a crack, but enough for him to see what was inside. And what he saw didn't surprise him, now that he was actually looking. "Of course, who else?" he murmured quietly, shutting the door without another word. He placed one of the hotel's standard 'Do Not Disturb' signs on the handle, so as to warn himself and others that this room had been visited.

Pushing what he'd just seen to the back of his mind, he continued to search for his friends.

* * *

><p>However, being the Doctor, he should have known better than to run from his problems – or to try and forget them, for that matter. And, what's more, he should have known that Amy would share the same fear as him. After all, his mad impossible Pond had been there from the beginning, and could affect him like no other.<p>

Ignoring the pounding on door number seven – _the age she was when we first met,_ he thought with a terrifying clarity – the Doctor looked from Amy to the little girl in red wellies, who was sitting patiently on a suitcase and staring longingly out the window up at the night sky. He became aware of his Amy – for his she would always be – dropping to the ground.

"Doctor, it's happening," she said, clearly panicking. "It's changing me … It's changing my thoughts."

"Amy …" he whispered regretfully. "I can't save you. There's nothing I can do to stop this."

She looked at him like he was crazy, as she had often been called for believing in him. "What?"

"I stole your childhood, and now I've led you by the hand to your death," he said urgently, staring intently at her. "But the worst thing is that I knew … I knew this would happen. This is what always happens." And though it would kill him, he _had_ to break her faith. Only she could save herself now.

As the Minotaur broke through the flimsy barricade that Rory had been providing, the Doctor felt the same panic that Amy must be feeling welling up inside of him.

"Forget your faith in me," he pleaded with her. "I took you with me because I was vain," he went on, seemingly unable to stop – not until he got Amy to really listen to what he was trying to tell her, "Because I wanted to be adored." Cupping a hand behind her head, he murmured reverently, "Look at you – glorious Pond, the girl who waited for _me_."

And it was _this_ that he couldn't believe. After all, who was he? Why was he important enough for her to wait as many years as she had for him to come back?

With these thoughts in mind, she seemed to transform before his very eyes, back into the little girl she had been when they first met.

"I'm not a hero," he admitted, smiling sadly at her. Though what he had to say would destroy him, as well as her, it was necessary. "I really am just a madman in a box," he conceded. Placing a hand on her head, he said firmly, "And it's time we saw each other as we really are." Pressing his lips to her forehead for what would be their last kiss, he pulled away, chucking her under the chin, and said, "Amy Williams – it's time to stop waiting."

He could tell the moment her faith in him broke, and he was never prouder. He knew what strength that must have taken, and what courage. It's what he'd always admired in her, as well as in all his other companions. Though they'd never lost faith – certainly not Rose, and as for Donna … well, she didn't even remember their times together – they _had_ become disenchanted, especially Martha. Ah, Martha, who was just as special as his sweet little Amelia was, and who had found an inner-strength that allowed her to walk away when things became too much.

Brought back to the present by the Minotaur's labored retreat, the Doctor sat calculating the irreparable damage he had caused, the way he had shattered Amy's faith in him, and the way her lip seemed to tremble slightly. Amy, for her part, was floored by the age-old pain she saw in his eyes. She didn't completely understand what had just happened, but it felt as though they'd just said goodbye.

The Doctor was letting her go.


End file.
